


Lay With Me, I'll Lay With You (We'll Do the Things That Lovers Do)

by homelesshats



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shop, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:43:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homelesshats/pseuds/homelesshats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Coffee Shop!AU) Ian Gallagher works in a coffee shop named Vee's near a community college while he takes online classes to stay caught up with his peers. Mickey Milkovich goes to classes on campus and lives with his sister, Mandy, in a downtown apartment, barely paying for the classes he needs to graduate. One night the two of them cross paths when Ian is closing up on his own, and the rest is history.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>------ THIS FIC IS CURRENTLY ON HIATUS ------</p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> right ok so i've never written any ian/mickey stuff before but seeing as i've gotten attached to them recently i thought i'd give it a try and since every pairing needs a coffee shop!au i decided to write one. this is a WIP and there'll hopefully be many chapters but for now here's the first (please comment!).

Somehow, even when there are only dim lights in Veronica’s coffee shop, and it’s almost eight o’ clock at night, Ian is still wiping perspiration from his forehead because of the heat. He figures it’s just from the steaming coffee makers scattered around the back, but then again he’s always been an easy sweater.

He’s been on his own today; Karen called in sick and Vee (also known as Veronica, and the owner of said coffee shop) is at home with her baby. Kevin, Vee’s husband, had kindly offered to fill in for her, but Ian, like the dumbass he is, convinced Kev he’d be alright on his own.

Needless to say, he hadn’t been alright. The day started out slow, like most Saturdays do, but then the morning rush came, and Ian felt like he was going to have a heart attack for about forty minutes straight. When it slowed down, and the lunch-ers came around, he felt a little bit more at ease. After that, things were okay, and he barely had to lift a finger until the kids from college walked in, all of them in small pods of threes and fours. And, even then, it was alright.

He just had to remind himself that he should never volunteer to do a day on his own ever again. He really should've asked Lip, his brother, to come in. Even if he doesn't exactly work there, Ian's pretty sure Lip would enjoy the extra cash.

Just as Ian unties his apron and goes to hang it up on its hook — a small peg in the wall with a strip of bright orange duct tape above it, letters written in sharpie on it stating ‘IAN’, and heart stickers surrounding the tape, done by none other than Debbie, his little sister — the front door opens and the bell tolls, signaling a customer.

Ian looks up at the clock and sees that the hands say it’s 8:34, then runs a hand through his almost non-existent red hair, sighing. “Sorry, but we’re just about to close, and I’ve already turned off all of the pots —” he says, planning to continue until he looks up at the man standing at the door.

The man looks taken by surprise, and a little apologetic, as he stares back at Ian. His hair is either black or a very dark shade if brown, Ian can’t quite tell underneath the beanie he’s wearing, and his eyes are bright and blue and so unearthly chilling that it’s almost calming. The clothes he’s wearing make a light go off in Ian’s head — Clearly a college student, he thinks — some kind of fitting brown coat, a black v-neck, dark blue jeans that aren’t really skinny, but might as well be with the way they accentuate his legs, and a forest green muffler that’s wrapped happily around his neck.

“So…” Ian ends up saying, and he makes a note to slap himself as soon as the attractive man leaves.

Ian's known he was gay since he was eleven. After witnessing many, many films with attractive leading men (thanks to his older sister, Fiona), and not having any attraction to their female counterparts, Ian wasn't even able to question it. And when he'd, one day, seen one of Fiona's boyfriends drying himself off after taking a shower, there was no turning back. He'd even fantasized about the guy for the two weeks or so that followed the incident, and he still felt no shame about it. The guy had been like a modern Adonis.

“I just,” the man says, and Ian’s knees nearly buckle. Christ, that voice. What the hell is this guy, an angel? Demon? Some kind of vampire, come to kill Ian and leave no trace behind? (Strange enough, Ian’s not sure he’d mind being killed by this guy). “You guys have a Help Wanted sign out front?” The man smiles sheepishly, speaking like it’s a question, and it really shouldn’t be as adorable as Ian thinks it is.

“Oh. Yeah,” Ian mutters. He’d forgotten they’d put that out there, like, a week ago. “So, you, uh, want a job?”

The man nods slightly, “But I don’t wanna keep you here if you’re closing, I’ll just come back tomorrow,” he starts to turn away to leave.

“No, no,” Ian shakes his head, “it’s fine, really, I’ve got nowhere to be.” He gives the man a sweet smile, the corners of his lips turning up, “C’mon, I’ll interview you.” He sits down at a table near the counter, motioning to the chair opposite him.

Reluctantly, but grateful, the man sits across from Ian, removing his muffler and coat before leaning back in the chair comfortably.

“Right,” Ian says, nodding once, “do you have a résumé with you?” The man reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out a folded, crisp white piece of paper, like it was just printed, and hands it to Ian. Their fingers brush briefly, and for some reason, Ian feels a certain wave of sparks swipe through him from his hands to his brain and back.

He overlooks the résumé, seeing that his name is Michael Milkovich, he’s worked at several grocery stores, locally owned produce markets and one hotel (Ian can’t help but imagine him in a bellhop outfit, the image making him laugh quietly to himself), but only two of the places are listed as references.

“Well, Michael —”

“Mickey,” he interrupts, and gives Ian a small smile. “I don’t really go by Michael, my sister just insisted on me being professional.”

Ian grins, “Mickey.” He lets his name roll off his tongue, and the way it sounds in his mouth shouldn’t feel any different from how anyone else’s name sounds, but it does. It feels warm, comfortable. Safe. "Can you make coffee?"

Mickey opens his mouth, then pauses before letting out a soft laugh, "I guess so, yeah. It's not like I burn it, or anything."

Ian smiles at him, nodding, "Kinda hard to fuck up plain coffee," he clears his throat, "What about smoothies? Or milkshakes?"

Pursing his lips, Mickey bounces his head from side to side, "I can make some mindblowing vanilla milkshakes, but that's all I've tried, so I'm not sure."

Ian hums and chews on his bottom lip, tapping his fingers against the tabletop as he reads over Mickey's résumé again and again. “You seem like a reasonably nice guy,” he looks back up at Mickey, “and you may not have experience as a barista, but not a lot of people do.” Ian shrugs, “And we can use all the help we can get, really.” He studies Mickey for a moment, a half smile settled on his lips, “So, I really don’t have a reason to say no.”

The expression on Mickey’s face brightens so much that Ian feels his heart ache a bit in his chest, and Mickey smiles so wide that Ian wants nothing more than to kiss those gorgeous lips that are spread so happily.

“Really?” Mickey laughs once, incredulously.

“Yeah,” Ian smiles back, “I'll have to talk to Vee, the, uh, owner, but I'm sure she'll have no problem with it. You can start on Thursday.”

“Thank you,” Mickey stands, reaching a hand over to shake Ian’s. The second their skin touches, Ian feels a shock, and even though he’s pretty sure it was just electricity, Mickey’s face seems to convey the same thing Ian is feeling.

Mickey follows Ian out as he locks up, turning out the lights and pressing in the four-digit code before shoving a singular silver key into his pocket.

“I’ve got the morning shift on Thursday, so just be here around 5:30, and I’ll be here to show you the ropes,” Ian smiles genuinely.

“5:30?” Mickey mimics, “A.M.?” As soon as Ian nods, Mickey’s eyes widen.

“You’re the one who wanted to work at a coffee shop,” Ian chuckles, placing his hand on Mickey’s shoulder.

Mickey nods, then takes a deep breath. “Thanks, again,” he whispers, his breath coming out in puffs of white in the cold February air.

“It’s no problem,” Ian leans into Mickey’s space, hoping he doesn’t mind, “really.” He adjusts his satchel that’s attempting to escape his shoulder, and then begins to walk down the sidewalk, toward his apartment building. “See you Thursday?” He calls back to Mickey.

“Yeah,” Mickey smiles, his voice raised above the cars driving past and the wind, “see you Thursday!”

Ian smiles to himself the whole walk home.

—

Ian calls Veronica the next day. He has the day off, and he's pretty sure she's stayed home again, so he waits to wake up until noon, and he pulls the covers around his shoulders as he slinks into his kitchen to pour himself a glass of milk.

He grabs his cell phone from his sidetable when he gets back to his room, already having downed half of his glass, and then tucks his feet under him as he dials Veronica's number.

"Hello, babydoll," Vee's voice fills Ian's ear, smooth and warm. Sometimes Ian wonders how he got to have such a wonderful boss. "What's up?"

"I'm apologizing ahead of time, because I know I won't have time to after I say what I'm gonna say," Ian's voice is somehow still scratchy and drawling as he speaks into the receiver, "but I hired someone last night."

"You did what?" Vee says, her voice going up an octave, "Ian, honey, you can't do that without me."

"I know, I know," he nods, like she can see him, "but he seemed sad and he came in at the last minute, and he had a résumé with him, and he wasn't creepy, I swear."

"Baby," Vee sighs, "this is the sort of stuff managers do, not employees."

"I might as well be a manager, though," Ian mutters, "I work as much as a manager."

"I know, sweetie," over the phone, Ian can hear the quiet cries of a baby in the background, along with soothing words from Kev, who sounds a bit desperate. "Listen, if he can work through a whole shift, and he's good with customers, and me, then," Vee pauses, taking a deep breath, and Ian can imagine her pinching the bridge of her nose like she always does when she's stressed, "Then, alright. But I want to meet with him before he starts."

"Well, I told him he could start on Thursday," Ian mumbles, and he's pretty sure Vee will start to yell at him, but much to his surprise, she only sighs, again, and continues to speak.

"Did you put him with you, on your shift?" She asks, and Ian confirms that he did with a hum, "Alright. I'll be there at the end of your shift on Thursday, stick around, we'll all have a short little chat, and hopefully he doesn't kill you while you're on break. Sound good?"

"Yeah, Vee, sounds good," Ian chews on his bottom lip, "And Vee?"

"Yeah, baby?" 

"Thanks. You're the best," he smiles half-heartedly, feeling like a total piece of shit for intruding on her role as owner, but then Veronica tells him to stop being a kiss-ass, and they hang up simultaneously, leaving Ian sitting on his mattress, facing the window that's covered in a light blue sheet.

—

Thursday couldn’t possibly come any later. Ian is practically chewing off his own hands by the time Thursday morning rolls around, and he barely sleeps the night before, tossing and turning in his sheets.

His alarm goes off at five, and he thanks his past self for deciding that he would take a shower the night before, instead of in the morning. He feels like absolute shit this morning, and he has no one to blame but himself.

Ian’s apartment is small, but it’s not like he was hoping for anything more. The last place he lived, his sister’s, Fiona, was larger, but he still had a smaller room than he does now. He’s grateful for anything he can afford, really.

He has a bathroom, and a kitchen, and a bedroom with an actual door, and even a living room. What more could he want?

The neighbors are nice, too. And even if he hates to admit it, Ian’s glad that his brother, Lip, is only two floors down, in a semi-exact replica of Ian’s apartment. He’s pretty sure it would’ve been so much harder to adjust without his brother and best friend there.

A yawn rips through him, and he stretches largely, his arms reaching high above him, and then he sheds himself from the sheets, groaning as he walks to the bathroom.

He looks as bad as he feels, though he doesn’t look too dirty. There are tiny bags under his eyes, and he looks a bit disheveled, but other than that, he seems like his normal, messy self.

After brushing his teeth, and then proceeding to jerk off, just because he has about fifteen minutes to spare, Ian feels a bit more refreshed, and he slips out of the bathroom to get ready for his first day of work with Mickey.

He wonders if Mickey is nervous. Ian can remember being nervous his first day. Karen had done everything in her power to make him feel unwelcome, she’d somehow had, and still has, a magical power that seems to be able to make him feel like a total outcast. 

As Ian tugs on his grey t-shirt, he makes a point to make Mickey feel more comfortable than he did, because no one deserves that kind of torture.

He leaves without breakfast, figuring he should probably get there before 5:30, and locks his door twice before making his way down the stairs and up 22nd avenue.

Ian can see the coffee shop’s sign before he gets within a few dozen meters, and he can smell it, even without anyone brewing coffee, as he walks closer, searching for the small silver key in his back pocket. He taps in the four digit code, then unlocks it easily, opening the dark brown mahogany door before he steps into the dark coffee house.

Without the lights on, even as dim as they are, the coffee house is dark and cold, though the smell of brewing coffee beans still wafts strongly into his nose. Ian yawns as he takes steps closer to the counter, flipping the light switches and lighting the room with much-needed lamps. The sun is still behind the horizon, barely a shade of pink outside of the large window behind the counter.

Before Ian can start more than three pots of coffee, Mickey’s footsteps sound on the hardwood floor after he opens the door gently, closing it with silent apprehensiveness.

“Hey!” Ian greets him, jumping over the counter ungracefully, “Happy first day.” 

Mickey rubs his eyes tiredly, yawning, and the way his mouth shapes itself into an ‘o’ is much more adorable than Ian’s willing to admit.

“Mm,” Mickey mutters, and Ian laughs.

“Hope you don’t plan on greeting customers like that,” he jokes, then nods his head towards the back, “c’mon.”

They spend about ten minutes going over the different types of coffee beans, and the additives that they use to make the coffee sweeter. Ian shows Mickey the bottles of caramel, cocoa sauce, vanilla, etc. as he walks past them, going back out to the front, and then he tells him where the berries, citrus fruits and milk is stored where they won't get spoiled easily. The rules about what to add into things are pretty simple when Ian tells Mickey, who seems to become more and more awake as each minute passes, and once it starts to turn light outside, and the clock on the wall shows that it's six o'clock, Ian turns over the sign in the window.

"Oh," Ian clears his throat, which makes Mickey look up at him, "I called Vee, the owner, and she wants to meet with us after our shift. Just to, you know, make sure you're not gonna murder me or anything."

Mickey raises an eyebrow at Ian, but slowly smiles, nodding his head, "Alright."

"And, uh, if you forget things or get a customer who wants something really specific, just yell for me," Ian grins, "Or, you know, if you just wanna talk." He winks at Mickey, who blushes but still manages a surprised smile, and then the morning rush begins when a group of three women walk in the door.

The first couple hours go by quickly, the two of them doing nothing but making coffee and coffee and more coffee, but when it finally begins to slow down, and they have more than enough time to goof around, Ian turns up the radio that plays over the loud speakers.

"C'mere," Ian says over the music that's playing -- it sounds like Ke$ha, Ian thinks -- and holds out a hand to Mickey. The counter is the only thing separating them from the several customers sitting at tables scattered around the shop, but when Mickey rolls his eyes and puts his hand in Ian's, allowing him to pull Mickey closer and start dancing, it might as well feel like they were all alone in their own world with nothing but the company of pop music playing over shitty speakers and the smell of coffee.

The rest of their shift, all of an hour and a half, is mostly boring, and they lounge around the counter, Ian tossing coffee beans at Mickey and Mickey threatening to dump the dirty dish water on Ian if he doesn't stop, which makes Ian stop for less than five minutes before he starts to throw them again, and Mickey laughs menacingly before dipping his cupped hand into the water and tossing it at Ian. The customers find them interesting enough, and they smile and shake their heads at them before looking away, going back to whatever they're doing on their laptops. Ian thinks he and Mickey make a pretty good team when it comes to entertaining.

Veronica comes in exactly three minutes before their shift ends, with Karen and Mykayla, another worker, in tow. She gives Mickey a warm smile, which he hesitantly retaliates with his own grin, and then tells them both to come sit with her at one of the back tables.

"How's Karen?" Ian says, glancing over at her and seeing that she looks perfectly fine and not at all sick.

"She's fine," Vee tells him, putting her fingers on his chin and directing Ian's attention back to her, "And don't act like you've never called in sick from a hangover before, babydoll, because I know you better than that."

Ian sighs, leaning back in his seat, and Mickey snickers, looking over at Ian with a smirk. 

"You must be Mickey," Vee holds out her hand and Mickey nods, shaking her hand with a gentle touch. "You're right," Vee says, and Ian can tell it's directed to him, even if she doesn't look away from Mickey, "He's not creepy."

"Uh," Mickey clears his throat, chewing on the side of his lip, "thanks?"

Ian elbows him softly, giving him a smile, "So?" Ian looks at Vee, "Is he in? The shop isn't burnt down, I'm not dead, the customers are happy, I'm not dead, he's not creepy, and did I mention I'm not dead?" 

Veronica rolls her eyes, leaning her cheek into her open palm before she turns her attention back to Mickey. She stares at him for a minute, taking him in, and Ian recognizes the look she's giving him, it's the same one he got before she hired him. It's like the look she has that can detect any sort of fatal flaw from anyone. 

"Hm," she hums, pursing her lips, "Hmm..." Her eyes narrow, eyebrows furrowing, and then she crosses her arms, nodding slowly. "Alright."

Ian stares at her, "Alright?" She nods again, then smiles sweetly at Mickey.

"Welcome to the staff," Vee tells Mickey, "You'll have an apron by the end of the week."

Even though it's not much of a welcome, Ian can tell how pleased Mickey is by the sentiment as he looks over at Ian, a grin plastered onto his lips, and Ian feels his heart skip in his chest. He's not sure about what that means, but the butterflies in his stomach tell him that he's got it bad, though he doesn't know what it really is, and the thought alone makes him uneasy, even with the contradicting, floating feeling he's getting from Mickey's thankful smile.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just wanna say thank you for the comments and support! and i'm sorry for the delay of this chapter but i'm pretty sure you guys will like it ;))) thanks again!!

Sunlight is Mickey's worst enemy, he's come to realize.

He would've guessed something more obvious; brussel sprouts, country music, that bitch who lives next door, Satan. He's not too sure about that last one, but still. 

It's too bright for noon, too bright in his room, too bright beneath his eyelids. He groans when his alarm clock continuously goes off, beeping at him until he reaches up sluggishly and hits the snooze. He does this more than enough times until Mandy yells from the room on the other side of the wall, telling him to get the fuck up or she'll shove the alarm clock up his ass, and he wants to scream back, something like 'at least I have an ass to shove something in' but decides against it because he's just too goddamn lazy.

Mickey's shift starts at one-thirty. He still needs to take a shower, and he has to eat something. Unless he talks Ian into letting him eat some of the leftover pastries from the week before, which ultimately sounds like a better plan to Mickey than taking thirty minutes to cook something for himself (which will turn into making something for Mandy, too, because that's just how things work in the Milkovich residence). 

Quickly, -- well, as quickly as a person who's just woken up can move -- Mickey gets into the shower and manages to stand underneath the warm spray of water for five minutes before it starts to cool. When he gets out he knows that Mandy will still be in bed, so he just walks out into the living room naked and soaked, toweling his hair as vigorously as he can. And then, just as he's pulling out a pair of rumpled-up black jeans from his drawer, his phone begins to ring.

"Hello?" He answers without looking at the screen. He really couldn't give a shit about who it is.

"Hey!" Ian's voice springs from the other end, and Mickey rolls his eyes, scoffing.

"Hi," he greets again, "What's up?" Placing the phone carefully between his shoulder and ear, he continues to get dressed, pulling on one leg at a time.

"Just wondering if you wanted to get lunch before our shift," Ian sounds like he's smiling, and for some reason, it makes Mickey have to hold back his own grin. He's not sure why, but Ian's smile is contagious, even when he can't see the idiot.

"Hmm," Mickey tugs on his navy blue v-neck, smoothing it down once he's gotten it on, "Depends."

"On?" 

"If you're paying," Mickey smirks, even if Ian can't see it.

Ian laughs, bright and easy, "You're so cheap."

"It's my best quality," he hums, slipping on his shoes.

"Doubt that," Ian says, and Mickey's pretty sure he doesn't mean to say it, because before Mickey can think to respond, Ian is going on as fast as lightning, "Erm, sure, yeah, I'm paying."

"Cool," and Mickey's out of the door already, because he'd known that Ian was going to be the one paying all along. 

This is their usual routine, if he's honest. After working together for a little over two months, they've gotten into step with each other. When they have a morning shift, Ian is there early, making a fresh pot just for the two of them, and he makes it exactly how Mickey likes it (two spoonfuls of sugar, a shot of vanilla, and an extra shot of espresso). They share a couple of day-old doughnuts, waiting for the morning rush, and sometimes Ian dances around the front of the store to attract customers. When they have a lunch shift, like the one they have today, they either go out beforehand, or Mickey talks Ian into letting him eat the leftovers at the shop, and then they go out for drinks afterwards. And when they have late shifts, Mickey brings a dinner he's made, and during their break, they sit in the back and have a small picnic. It's just how things have sorted themselves.

Vee has somehow noticed that the two of them work best when they're around each other; Ian can work on his own, too, and he works alright with Jessie, a blonde high-schooler who's too dumb for his own good, but Mickey's the one he can really get things going with. And Mickey just likes Ian best. So, consequently, she's based their friendship on the schedules she's made since she hired Mickey, placing them together for every shift they have.

The two of them meet at a local Italian place, Portobello (Mickey always comments on how stupid the name is), and they're seated toward the back at around 12:30, giving them more than enough time to actually enjoy their food.

Mickey orders lasagna, and Ian orders some kind of real Italian dish with words that Mickey's raising his eyebrows at, and as soon as the waitress leaves, Ian looks over at him and makes the exact same expression at him.

"What?" He says, pursing his lips.

"Nothin'," Mickey shakes his head, looking down at the table covered in an off-white cloth, and Ian leaves it at that, knowing that if Mickey really wanted to say something, he would.

They eat quietly, but not completely silent. Mickey steals a bit of Ian's pasta when it comes out, but Ian doesn't mind, even if he does sigh exasperatedly at Mickey and roll his eyes. And Ian knows that if he even tried to take some of Mickey's lasagna, he'd get his hand stabbed through with a fork, and Mickey would use his blood as sauce. It doesn't bother Ian much, and Mickey knows that, because as he chews on the somewhat odd noodle and meat in his mouth, he sees Ian peeking up at him through his eyelashes, smiling that stupid half-smile Mickey's seen too many times to count.

Ian pays, like he said he would, and they leave, Mickey's stomach so full that he's pretty sure he's about to burst. Ian tells him that they've got about ten minutes, just enough time to walk to the shop, and Mickey nods, stretching his hands up above his head.

"How's school going?" Ian says, pulling out his pack of cigarettes and placing one between his lips. He lights it easily, then offers one to Mickey, who takes it gratefully.

"Like always," he says around the now-lit cigarette in his mouth. He takes in a breath, the smoke being inhaled into his lungs, and then he lets it out easily, "My Psych teacher's a nut."

"That's ironic," Ian laughs, and Mickey just shoves at his shoulder gently. "How's Mandy?"

"How the hell am I supposed to know?" Mickey grins at Ian, "She's usually out or asleep when I'm home." He shrugs, though, "I think she's got a new guy she's seeing. No idea who it is, though. She's talked about him once or twice, but..."

Ian smirks, "But you're never really listening."

The look Mickey shoots Ian is cold, but the laugh that sounds from his lips as he throws his arm around Ian's neck, dragging him down to mess up Ian's hair -- it's not Mickey's fault he's so fucking short -- is bright and happy, and if Ian notices the slight difference in how Mickey has become so comfortable around him, he doesn't say anything.

—

"Oh, my fucking God, Mickey, you're such a pig!" Mandy's voice calls through the apartment, all the way back from her room to the living room, where Mickey is happily stretched out along their grey sofa, his legs draped over the arm and his head balanced on a small, firm pillow. 

He doesn't even attempt to say anything back, because he knows she'll just come out and yell at him. And he'd rather not really put up the effort of raising his voice.

And, just like clockwork, Mandy comes out of the hallway, her arms crossed over her chest, and stares down at him disapprovingly.

"What did I do?" Mickey asks-slash-yawns, not bothering to look away from the television set.

"You left your 'special rag' on the bathroom floor," she tells him, and when he looks over at her, finally, he purses his lips, bringing a hand up to rub at his bottom lip.

"I don't use a 'special rag,'" he groans, and then he's standing up to go fetch his stupid towel that he must've left on the tile floor of the bathroom. "And do you really have to call it that?"

Mandy follows him back to the bathroom, and then smirks when they get up to the bathroom, and Mickey just about calls her a psycho before he hears a bark from the other side of the door. He looks at her, eyes wide, and then she motions for him to open the door. When he does, a tiny, black pug comes skittering out, barking and yelping and sniffing all over the place.

"Happy almost-birthday," she says, bending over the pick up the skittish dog, who's pawing at her and attempting to lick all the way up its own nose. 

"Did you seriously get me a dog?" He says, like he doesn't appreciate it, but he does. He's wanted a dog ever since they were kids, but they were never stable enough to own one. Living with a foster mom who has allergies to pet dander had its downsides, even if it was more appreciated than living with an alcoholic, abusive father. He would've honestly taken living on the streets over having to deal with his father any more than he had to.

The Milkovich kids were sent to Child Protective Services less than a week after their mother committed suicide. Mickey's older brothers were separated from them, sent to homes across the state, and they've only kept in touch through birthday and Christmas cards. Mandy and Mickey, on the other hand, since they were so close in age, were kept together, and were sent to a mother whose husband had died earlier that year, and had been left with no way to have children, her ovaries destroyed by cancer. She'd been a good mother to them, she gave them the love they deserved and she kept them safe and they loved her in return. She died a couple years after they moved out together, from a return of her cancer. It was fast, quicker than most deaths that were caused by cancer, only a few months. Mickey and Mandy had visited her every day, had brought her flowers and made sure to care for her just as well as she'd cared for them.

But now they're on their own. And Mandy decided to get Mickey a puppy for his birthday that's in a few days.

"Yup," she smiles, raising her eyebrows, "haven't named her yet, though. Thought I'd leave it up to the birthday boy," she holds the pug up to Mickey's face, and just as the dog licks at his nose, he laughs, grasping her from his sister's hands.

He looks down at her in his arms, her runny nose and over-active paws, and he can't help but smile at her, scratching underneath her head, making the small dog yelp and kick against him happily.

"Penelope," Mickey decides, looking up at Mandy, "Penelope?" He says, his tone asking if it was alright.

"Penelope's perfect," she nods, reaching over to scratch the top of Penelope's head, who looks pleased with the name. Or pleased with something else. To be honest, Mickey isn't sure if she 'll ever be displeased by anything.

—

The shop is quiet when Mickey walks in for his shift. Granted, he has the later shift tonight, but still. And he's grateful for it, he hates when he has to buckle down as soon as he clocks in.

Ian is already standing behind the counter, apron on, smiling at the woman ordering a medium cappucino, and Mickey feels his stomach jump for a second. 

It's not new. Ever since Mickey met Ian, the night he was hired, Mickey's heart has sped up, just a bit, when he sees Ian. And he tries to hide it, but it's getting harder and harder as the days go by. At first, Mickey thought it'd go away. But the more Mickey learns about Ian, the more he just wants to jump him and marry him and suck his dick. Possibly not in that order.

And Mickey's known he was gay since he was thirteen, since he watched that Titanic movie with Mandy and didn't even get a little bit hot and bothered when Kate Winslet's breasts were shown -- and, not to mention, had a lot of nights that were filled with wet dreams about Leonardo DiCaprio. It's just weird for him to have feelings for a guy before he hooks up with him. It's always been the other way around, if feelings are even included at all.

Mickey grabs his apron from its hook, where a strip of pink duct tape is over the top of it (thanks to Ian's little sister, Debbie, who insisted that pink was his color, despite his protests) and his name is written in all capitals, and then he slips behind Ian, who's in the process of making the cappucino that was ordered. A sultry, hip-hop song starts to play over the speakers, and Mickey grinds up against Ian playfully, chuckling when Ian swats at him, a smile on his face but his cheeks flushed a bright red. Mickey will honestly never get over that.

"Here you go," Ian tells the lady, who gives him a sweet smile, and then the two of them are alone in the shop, the sun setting outside of the large windows covered in stickers (also Debbie's doing).

"Mandy got me a dog," Mickey says, hopping up on the counter beside the cash register. Ian leans against the counter next to him, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah? Why?" 

Mickey shrugs, "It's my birthday tomorrow, and I've kinda always wanted one. So she got me a pug. She's still young, and she needs to be house-broken -- we've already had two accidents," he laughs, rubbing at his bottom lip with the tip of his thumb, "But, uh, yeah. We named her Penelope, after our foster mom."

Ian looks at Mickey for a long time, just taking him in, for reasons unknown to Mickey, and then a slow grin rises on his lips. "That's sweet," he tells Mickey, "Naming her after your foster mom, I mean." Mickey's already told Ian about his past, well, the important parts, not including his father's habits or his mother's suicide.

"Yeah," Mickey shrugs again, like it's no big deal.

"And you didn't bother to tell me that your birthday's tomorrow," Ian shoves at Mickey's knee, "I would've gotten you something and brought it tonight, since I probably won't see you 'til after tomorrow."

"You don't have to get me something," Mickey shakes his head. "I'd prefer if you didn't, seriously, I never know what to say when people get me stuff."

Ian hums, then walks off towards the back, pulling out his phone from the apron's large pocket.

"I swear to God, if you're about to order flowers or some shit, I'll tell Vee that you're the one who's been stealing the packages of coffee from the back," but Ian doesn't even flinch, just smirks over his shoulder before slipping into the door to the back of the shop.

Before Ian can even dial three numbers, Mickey is jumping off of the counter and grabbing Ian's phone from his hand, already through the door Ian just went through. Ian reaches for it, but Mickey races to the farthest wall, keeping the iPhone behind his back and threatening to shove it down his pants.

"That's not gonna stop me," Ian snorts, reaching his arms around Mickey's torso to retrieve his phone from Mickey's hands, "Seriously! C'mon, give it back! I promise I won't, --" Ian looks down at Mickey, whose face is surprisingly close to his own, and Mickey can feel his breath on his skin. "I won't order any flowers, I swear," Ian finishes, his voice softer, but Mickey is already placing his iPhone in Ian's hand.

Mickey's not sure who leans in first. He thinks, maybe, he does, but the force that Ian's lips make him think differently. His head bumps against the wall behind him, Ian's mouth forming against his and making him breathe heavily through his nose, and he's not sure what the sound of something falling to the linoleum tile is, but he doesn't really care enough to stop kissing Ian to find out.

Ian's lips are soft and firm and just the right amount of moistness and Mickey is pretty sure he's dying until Ian places his hands on Mickey's waist, pressing his hips up against Mickey's. The clothes between them are suddenly too much for him, and he feels constricted, like he can't do anything with them on, he just wants to feel Ian's naked body, and he wants Ian's hands all over his own, just wants to touch and be touched.

Mickey pushes Ian away, still somehow keeping their mouths attached, and presses him up against some sort of shelf made out of metal, the thing wobbling when Ian stumbles, and they both laugh into each other's mouths before reattaching them. The two of them somehow make it back to the door, Ian's back pushed up against it, and Mickey is biting down on Ian's bottom lip teasingly, sucking it into his own, making Ian gasp out a soft breath that has Mickey a bit more aroused than he's willing to admit. He guides one of his hands to Ian's waist, while the other cradles the back of Ian's head, tugging gently on his short red hair, and slips the tips of his fingers into the waistband of Ian's jeans, feeling the soft, tender skin beneath.

From there, it's all downhill. Or uphill, Mickey guesses, because he can't help but grin as Ian hums, pleased, as Mickey shoves down Ian's jeans just enough to get his fingers against Ian's cock that's becoming increasingly hard in his boxers. And Mickey thinks that Ian's color choice of underwear is cute (lavender), even if he'll never tell him that.

His lips move from Ian's lips to his jaw, then down his to his neck, where he sucks a dark red bruise into his skin. He licks over the skin, nosing at Ian's jaw, and sighs happily when he hears Ian whine just a bit from Mickey's fingers dipping into the other boy's boxers.

"Fuck," Ian gasps when Mickey wraps his pale fingers around Ian's cock, stroking it experimentally. "Mickey," Ian's hands tighten on Mickey's waist, his lips quivering before he bites down on the bottom one, and he drops his head back against the door, baring his soft, pale throat. It's probably one of the hottest things Mickey's ever seen.

Mickey attaches his lips to the spot below Ian's Adam's apple, sucking and licking over it, happy with the reaction he gets from the younger boy, and works his fingers along Ian's shaft. He can feel beads of pre-come on the head of Ian's cock, and he smears them over the sensitive skin, forcing a moan from Ian's lips. Mickey can feel the vibration of his vocal chords, and he noses against the skin there, his own hips pressing up against Ian, yearning for attention.

Thankfully, Ian grasps the hint and moves one of his hands beneath the apron that Mickey's still wearing, his fingers finding the button of Mickey's fly and easily undoing it before he moves his fingers to grope at Mickey's dick, hard and eager for attention. 

The two of them are rocking into each other's hands for a moment before Ian's opposite hand trails up to Mickey's hair, pulling him back and then bringing him back to press their lips together, all tongues and teeth and need for the other to give more. 

It barely crosses Mickey's mind that they left the shop unattended, and he should probably say something, but there are no alarms going off, and no one was sitting inside, and he can't really concentrate too well when Ian's tongue and sliding up against his and Ian's fingers are pulling at his cock and, then, his own fingers and tightening and loosening with ease around Ian's leaking cock. With how things are going, this won't take long until they're both coming, anyways, Mickey thinks.

Mickey's pretty sure his mouth if raw by now, but he continues to kiss Ian, wants to somehow mold their lips together and always kiss him, it feels so good. The pressure on his cock from Ian's fingers, masterfully and quickly tugging at Mickey, is overwhelming, he's convinced he's seeing stars behind his eyelids when he closes them. He buries himself in the crevice between Ian's neck and shoulder, leaning into the feel of Ian's fingers running through his hair and stroking at his cock, and he's rocking into it and it feels so good and he can't even make coherent sentences because he's been wanting this without even being able to think about it properly for a while, for months now.

As soon as Ian moans again, something that sounds strangely close to 'Mickey' but he's not sure, Mickey is coming all over Ian's fingers, and he can see the two of the between their bodies that are practically pressed against each other. He can see that Ian's cock is leaking so much that he's probably desperately close, and he sees Ian bring his hand up, beyond where Mickey can see, and he figures he's wiping his fingers somewhere besides their clothes, seeing as they have nothing to change into.

"C'mon," Mickey whispers, feeling determined, even if he's feeling the post-coital drowsiness already, "come for me, Gallagher," he smirks, and that's all it takes for Ian to tighten his fingers in Mickey's hair, his cock coming over Mickey's fingers, leaving them sticky and covered in Ian's seed.

And, just like that, the air around them is no longer thick and Mickey can breathe without gasping for it, but he stills stays close to Ian, resting his head against Ian's chest, mouthing at the skin of Ian's throat. He can feel Ian's fingers in his hair, still, and he leans into them without meaning to, his own fingers, that aren't covered in spunk, trailing along the cloth of Ian's t-shirt.

"Hate to say this," Ian mutters, and he really does sound tortured by the words leaving his lips, "but we should really get back out there before we get robbed."

Mickey groans, but he knows Ian is right, so he reluctantly pulls away from Ian's grasp, looking up at him, and there's something in Ian's eyes that Mickey can't really put his finger on, but then Ian smiles, slow and blissful, and Mickey really can't hold back his own grin as he watches Ian pull his trousers back up and straighten the green apron over his torso.

"Oh," he says, and ducks around Mickey, who's unhappily buttoning up his own jeans. Ian grabs his phone from the tiled floor, and shoots Mickey a small, sheepish smile, "Dropped it."

Mickey nods, evening out his own apron, with a small smirk playing along his lips. He follows Ian out of the back when he leaves, and remembers to turn off the light before the door shuts, creating a soft thud that contradicts the easy beating of Mickey's heart.


End file.
